


To his last breath

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:50:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2369972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s never been able to say no to Sam, and the first time they did this, bleeding in the backseat of the Impala, bleeding out their fear and love, he knew he’d never be able to stop</p>
            </blockquote>





	To his last breath

Goddamit.

Dean knocked back the flimsy door the small shack that he’d found, bodily dragging Sam in after him. Dumping their packs of supplies on the warped wood floor boards, Sam held himself up against on one of the walls while Dean unrolled a blanket on the wet floor that was growing moss.

Everything was wet. They’d sloshed through a stream till Dean had seen this shack through a break in the trees, hoping it would be sufficient to throw their tracks for one night, just to buy them some time, buy them some rest. It was only one Wendigo, but it was a strong son of a bitch and Dean had dragged Sam out of there when he was gouged deep enough to worry about his guts spilling out.

It was far from sterile, but a blanket between Sam and the floor would have to do. They had rations, first aid supplies, weapons in their packs, uncertain of how long they’d have to spend tracking through dense backwoods. Dean helped Sam peel bloody and torn clothes off his chest, wet stiff denim off his legs, then lay his brother down on the blanket grimacing at the wounds that managed to look even worse against pale white skin tacky with sweat.

Washing his hands best he could with their drinking water, Dean passed Sam a small flask of whiskey. He took it gratefully, his face calm but his hands trembling finely. His whole right side was smattered with rapidly deepening purple bruises from where he was tossed against rocks in the cave several times. Dean’d have some bruises to match those, but he didn’t get swiped like Sam.

Dean rubbed Sam down with antiseptic wipes the best he could, making a mess of smearing the orange iodine stains across his skin with blood that wouldn’t stop flowing. Sam helped, holding his skin together while Dean pushed the needle through, hands slick with blood and sliding in it but he was used to it, they both were. Dean taped it with gauze afterward, red seeping through the white and blossoming out too quick.

Sam lay on the floor with one leg propped up on his foot, both hands held on his heaving chest, eyes squeezed shut and hair matting with sweat. Dean pushed his own sodden pants down his legs, taking both pairs and hanging them on a hook on the wall in the hopes they might be a little more dry in the morning because they didn’t bring spares of clothes, not enough room with all the weapons. He forced some water in Sam, and a packet of tuna.

When Sam’s breath evened out, when he could focus his eyes on something, he reached up for Dean, a quiet needy sound from his lips.

“Will you take care of me De?”

And of course he would, and of course he did every time Sam asked.

“Yeah Sammy. Yeah, I got you little brother.”

Pulling his shirt over his head, Dean knelt between his brothers legs, running his hands over any patch of Sam’s skin that wasn’t covered in bruises or gauze. Sam’s breath deepened, relaxed and even, cock thickening and hands coming up to cover Dean’s, to run up Dean’s forearms. Sam rested a hand splayed over Dean’s chest, feeling his breath and heartbeat.

Dean didn’t know why it always ended up like this, why they always seemed to do this when someone was hurt or they were trapped in a shitty little hole. Why they always seemed to do this when their status of survival was teetering on the edge of desperation. Maybe because it wasn’t something made for sunlight or smiles, for comfortable beds and soft sheets. It wasn’t right. And Dean couldn’t stop feeling sick like he’d corrupted his brother, like he should have known better or had more self control. But he’s never been able to say no to Sam, and the first time they did this, bleeding in the backseat of the Impala, bleeding out their fear and love, he knew he’d never be able to stop.

Pulling Sam’s boxers off and shimmying out of his own, Dean propped himself up with his arms on either side of Sam’s head, holding himself close enough to feel the heat of his brother’s body, their chests barely touching on shared inhales, but a space between them so he wouldn’t hurt Sammy. If there was one thing he loved best about this sickness, it was kissing Sam, it was swallowing down his little gasps when Dean breached him with the first finger, feeling Sam go lax under him with mouth open before his brother would remember to kiss back again, soft and shallow press of tongue.

Dean pushed up, pulling Sam’s legs to wrap around his waist, hands soothing down soft haired thighs, curling over his brother and pressing in, pressing them together, holding Sam by the hips, watching every minute change in Sam’s face. And Sam wouldn’t stop looking at him, wouldn’t look away, brow drawn in and lips parted, eyes rolling up before coming back, nostrils flared as he took a deep gasping breath, flush high on his cheeks. Dean knows how to read his brother’s expressive face, it holds all the secrets to Sam.

Bending over him again, bodies rocking together, faces a breath apart, Dean braced his weight on one arm and slid the other around behind Sam, into the small dip of his back, pulling him up and closer, guiding him with the steady easy rhythm. Slowly, he let it build slowly, unlike every other disaster of their lives, warmth spreading under skin and the pleasure of their connection coiling tighter in infinitesimal measures.

The din of rain against the tin roof of the shack was almost deafening, but he could still hear the rasp of Sam’s ragged breath. The rain came in through rusted holes in the roof, poured down a corner of the small shack that was crumbling with mold. The smell of wood rot and mildew was thick, but close to Sam, it smelled like blood and sweat and breath, like alcohol and antiseptic. Everything was secondary to Dean’s focus on his brother, world narrowed to pick at the sensory input from a single source, feeding greedily off Sam’s pleasure, his acceptance, the open raw affection.

Wrapping a hand around his brother’s cock, Dean bent forward to press his face to the curve of Sam’s shoulder, face drawn in tight, breath panting hot, whispering ‘Sammy’ over and over again while broad hands clung to his back and Sam tensed, relaxed, tensed, went slack underneath him.

Dean would stay as long as he could, in the hold of Sam’s legs, his arms, his heart, but the chill was already setting in across exposed skin. Sam’s breathing eased as Dean pried himself away and covered his brother with the second blanket they had. His hands lingered on any part of Dean’s skin that was near enough, reached outstretched when Dean moved too far away. Eventually Dean settled against the near wall, legs folded, pulling Sam’s head into his lap.

He’d stay up through the night and watch, because they hadn’t finished their job. Because he couldn’t betray the vulnerability of Sam’s trust. Gun in one hand, the other in Sam’s hair, Dean sat through his self appointed watch.

He’d give his brother anything, everything, to his last breath.


End file.
